ceramic alchemy

we lie decumbant
achilles tendons slit
eyes plucked like strawberries
on the first morning of summer's break
we bask like corpses on a bank of ganga
'neath the majestic horns of a crescent sun
drilling into the obese gut of heaven,
which ruptures, like a dam, out of it flows a mist:
the fog is so thick we carve figurines out therefrom
in bhang-haze, soma-drunk,
we breathe into that which we worship
we meditate in remembrance
upon the cranium of the world;
remember, hearken, the highest form of art
that we ever developed and set in motion:
the holy question ignites with the night:
is omnipotence a just a failed theorem?

an answer

"I think your contemplations are really, genuinely interesting. Do you consider yourself as having found any person that you can relate fully to? And bind a bond of a higher form of friendshup with?

Yes, i believe people who really embrace and confront the harrowing reality of human loneliness, will suffer periods of bitterness, crisis, angst and hopelessness throughout their life. It is reasonably a measure, a criterion, of human worth for me - can this person accept the loneliness of human existence or not?

that's why - i think - people hold on to collective institutions and sociological phenomena like nationalism, patrotism, pride, collective guilt, abrahamic religion, empty solace, etc, etc, etc. people do not dare let them go - because that would expose the underlying loneliness of their existences. people are unwantedly born to an absurd, absolutely incomprehensible world in a state of total existential solitude - we are condemned  utterly to freedom, we can not choose to put our freedom aside, save for in death and through suicide, which, I, by the way, sometimes would encourage and support... our every second is a moment of active and passive mechanisms of decision-making, our life's work, our soul cast like a can of colour on an empty wall that is life.

people retort to shitty things like patriotism and "ethnic pride" or even collective guilt because they want, as you say, belong to the context, be a part of it, i a mechanism of vitality in the industries of the human condition.

nevertheless, the are people out there - there must be! - whom are battling the reality of existentialism and nihilism courageously and victoriously, and those people we must find, I suppose."

nightmare follows

what is love

MAIAM

meandering tributaries to the great subterranean ocean
whose ends are obscured forever,
are we all.

in continual, sempiternal becoming
without ends, without fixed courses,
are we like rivers
whirling with the waters
of disquiet.




a world with no purpose
no meaning
nor truth,
and an existence
so absurd, and cruel,
and incomprehensible
are we
vomitted forth into.

rape, murder, dominance, oppression,
utopia, democracy, egalitarianism
genocide and solidarity
are all extensions, and results,
of the same whelming force.

saluted are those
who entrust their passions
to no one
but themselves:
from your own alienation and angst
you must act
and from your own actions
you shall die
with the prospect of unconditional happiness
as an unattainable idea
smeared like dirt
under the heel of your boot.

we all aspire
to nothing
but the passion
we feel
when we feel.

we all amount
to nothing
but the actions
we form
out of the formlessness
that is our passion.





passion
is the only signpost
with worth:
find what you love
and let it destroy you;
it has been said before.
what else could one do?

a passion is something worth
suffering for;
thus, in extension,
suffering bear meaning.

he who fears suffering
fear also life,
and in the storm of that insight,
we carve ourselves a totem.

the intrinsic worthlessness of all action
every thought, and every impulse of compassion
should be known beforehand,
so that we not fall into
the bottomless and uproarious swirl
of idealism, hedonism, and utopia.

he who fails to understand
the communal and ecumenical values
that bind together
the human family
will be revelated
the final vision;
that of god
weeping like a changeling
in a strait-jacket
with his eyes fixed
on the becoming horizon
of a tomorrow
blooming with the death and darkness
of true freedom.

There is the sensible world, and the spiritual, or metaphysical world: they are negations to each-other, but they are likewise indeed complementary to each-other, as they are mended in wholeness, the mysterium coniunctionis. Everything that is not made up of stuff has within its geneaology the energy of the numinous, that is, the abstraction we call divine: the soul, love, angst, passion, and God are all sprung out of the great paradoxical sinkhole that is engulfing the sensible, in other words, physical, world. But it is not limited to the confines of the physical world, nor is it halted by the bulwarks of the modern world, which we can observe amongst their kin the conceit and the arrogance of science, the culture of extraversion and hedonism, and the religion of the Jews and all its offspring, exercises, zealous, in thralldom... for sometimes, waters will stir in the sinkhole and rise to the thresholds, and maelstroms will whirl from beneath, the tsunamies of the incomprehensible whipping the coasts and shores of the physical world: when such a thing occurs, the fool will close his eyes, the smug will try to weigh it on a scale, and the ecstatic will call it revelation. Metaphysics are always original to physics; the void original to the space, war original to peace, and death original to life. Did not Tiamat, the glistening and the chaotic one, gnaw her tongue in the depths primordially, and at her death have her scales and her flesh assembled as the heavens and the earth? Did not her beloved son, Great Kingu, have his blood drawn at the fierce blade of Marduk, giving life to the first of the human beings?

 

 

FÅGEL FENIX (OSAMMANHÄNGANDE)

ur askan från värdighetens och självrespektens bål   reser sig en fenix genom tid och rum
   buren över en himmel av eld och blod
   och med ögon av spegelglas
som brinna av guds osynliga reflexion.

på dubbla vingpar insmorda i tjära
   och brunna sedan av bensin stulen
   slangad
   från en militärkonvojs lastbilar
   som färdas
   bakom fiendes kontrollpositioner
       svävar hon
över strömmar av storm
   och hav
     vars eget salt
     uttorkat dem.

kärlek är aldrig ett falsarium
     har jag hört
en ganska svag, unken människa
   någon gång säga
låt oss nu slänga denna
     villfarelse
   i existentialisternas köttkvarnar,

för jag är kackerlackan
   som slutligen vant sig
   vid solens ljus
   och krälat ut ur
     språkets kloak
däri jag lekt med träck och ord,
ord som smädats, bespottats;
     hora, fitta, kuk, knulla,
     existentialism...
    
ur en stenkross
   har tystnaden och klandrandet
   gentemot egensjälvet
   som damm och stoft
       återigen
som en fenix,
en död barnkropp på en främmande strand,
   uppstigit...
   i
   himmelen.

kriget är en skör ros med rötter ända in i själen,
        har det sagts.

my little animal graveyard is possibly the most valuable thing in my life at the moment